


feel again

by Bean_reads_fanfic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: (May is gone and it is left unexplained), Aftermath of Torture, Dehumanization, Disassociation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, NOT STARKER - Freeform, One Direction karaoke happens, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Whump, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Trauma, heavy angst with a touch of comfort at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22523275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bean_reads_fanfic/pseuds/Bean_reads_fanfic
Summary: Peter watches, blank-faced and empty-eyed, as bowl and spoon are placed in his hands. It makes Tony feel like he’s dealing with a robot, but even his robots are more lively than this. Taking Peter’s spoon, the man presses the Cheerios under the milk so that every piece of cereal will be soggy, just the way Peter likes.“Think you can finish all of that, buddy?” Tony asks, leaning down so he’s in Peter’s line of sight. Dulled brown eyes trail up to him, then back to the bowl and he nods, picking up the spoon. Tony breathes a sigh of relief as the kid starts to eat, chewing slowly....(Aftermath of kidnapping/dehumanization whump)
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 72
Kudos: 606





	feel again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parkrstark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parkrstark/gifts).



> this was posted on my tumblr awhile ago and i'm finally putting it on here, with a couple extra scenes

Peter has been gone for four months, two days, one hour and twenty-six minutes when Iron Man blows out the cinderblock wall of the ex-dog-fighter’s warehouse. Iron Patriot is next and the NYPD are close behind.

Six months before, Spider-Man stopped an underground dog-fighting ring, freeing dozens of animals who’d lived their lives in isolation. The hero was awarded by the ASPCA and got tons of good press after word spread of his involvement. Two months after, he disappeared - and it’s taken Tony too long to figure out that the events are connected. 

In the dust and chaos, Tony grabs the nearest thug by his throat and slams him against the wall. “Where. Is. He?” he bites out, nanobot helmet retracting and showing the expression of a man whose chronic despair has long festered into the anger of this moment. It’s the face of someone whose business terms mean life or death.

As for the thug, he’s got no need to ask who ‘he’ is. “D-down the hall!” he squeaks. “He just finished his fight so they’re- they’re prob’ly fixin him up–”

Tony doesn’t hesitate to slam the man unconscious before taking off in the indicated direction. He passes room after room, not paying attention as cops flood the building and begin handcuffing the remaining traffickers and freeing the imprisoned fighters. His vision tunnels until the one person he’s looking for is finally in front of him.

 _Peter_.

It’s clear which room is his: a crude spray-painting of a spider marks the door is indication of the handlers’ prize. Whoever was ‘fixing him up’ must have hightailed it as soon as they heard the noise of the break-in, but Tony already knows he’ll find and kill every last one of them. The need for it fills his bones and is only put at bay by the horror of the sight before him. 

Bolted down in an otherwise empty- and frankly, filthy- room is a kennel, barely big enough to hold a labrador, let alone the human figure crumpled inside. A flickering light in the ceiling barely catches the side of one hallowed cheek, but Tony’s heart still flutters at the sight.

_Peter. Peter. Peter._

“Kid,” Tony chokes, stumbling out of his armor and to his knees. He rips the wire-frame door off its hinges and hurries to drag the limp form out of confinement. There’s no reaction, even when Tony pulls the kid into his arms and turns his head, feeling for the sluggish pulse in his wrist. “Peter, wake up. Wake up, please wake up.”

His stomach churns as he looks the boy up and down. He’s dressed in a bloodied and stained gray jumpsuit, lacerations and punctures littering every inch of him. His arm is twisted at an unnatural angle; his ankle looks like it might’ve been broken and healed wrong sometime in weeks past. The most sickening part, however, is the heavy-set shock collar around his throat and the black leather muzzle tied over his mouth and nose.

A muzzle. A freaking muzzle. These freaks collared and muzzled a _child_.

It’s held around his head by a million straps and Tony wastes no time unclipping every one of them before tossing the thing hard against the wall. The movement jostles Peter and the kid winces, his eyes blinking open to slits.

“Peter, can you hear me?” Tony urges. “C’mon, say something, buddy.”

He goes to swipe a strand of hair out of the kid’s face- hair which is overgrown and a complete bird’s nest of grimy, unruly curls– but as soon as his fingers make contact, Peter’s body jerks backwards, his eyes snapping open. It happens so fast and surprises Tony so much that he does nothing but watch as the boy scrambles out of his hold. He presses his back against the edge of his cage and cowers there, hands clasped to his chest, eyes blown wide in fear and fixed on Tony’s knees like he’s afraid to make eye contact. Soft, tortured whimpers catch in his throat, but none make it past his lips. 

It’s a conditioned response.

Tony’s heart plummets.

“Peter,” he says, trying so hard to make his voice and expression as gentle as possible. More gentle than anything Tony Stark has ever done. He’s rewarded when Peter freezes and actually peeks up at his face. 

The man offers a smile despite the sting in his eyes. “Hey Pete. It’s me, it’s Tony. I’m came to take you home, bud.” Tony resists the urge to move forward, scoop the boy up and cuddle him the way he knows Peter secretly loves. Instead he waits quietly, ignores the distant sounds echoing in their space, and pours his whole heart into his gaze, just hoping it’s a beacon enough to bring his kid back to him.

It takes a few moments of nothing happening, but slowly Peter’s eyes fill with tears and he mouths a completely soundless, Tony?

Tony swallows, trying to keep his voice steady and reassuring. “Yeah, Underoos. I’m here.” Slowly, so slowly, Tony reaches out and pulls the boy into his arms once more, this time pressing him to his chest and tucking the boy’s head under his chin. Peter is stiff as a board but he doesn’t freak out so Tony counts it as a win. 

“I’m finally here, kid,” he whispers into the ratty curls. “I’m so- I’m so sorry I took so long to find you.”

Peter’s breath hitches, and then at last he melts into the embrace. He’s shaking like a leaf in the wind as he burrows himself closer, finally becoming the love-starved creature that he is. Tony can feel the boy’s ribs wracking with silent sobs, knows there’s tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt, but all the while Peter doesn’t make a sound. 

It scares Tony more than the injuries.

He’s murmuring comfort, rubbing soothing circles into the kid’s shoulder when suddenly Peter tenses a second before Rhodes barrels around the corner to find them, still fully decked in his armor. 

“Tones, did you get him? How is he?” he breathes, looking over the bundle of limbs that is their broken reunion. He takes a step forward to get a look at the kid for himself, and that’s when Peter loses it.

Just like he hasn’t all along, Peter doesn’t use coherent speech; he just folds in on himself and squirms into Tony with vigor that’s nearly violent, mewling through clenched teeth and clutching the man’s shirt in fistfulls strong enough to bruise. There’s a mantra to the sounds he’s making, the ones that don’t quite make it into words, but it sounds awfully like please-no-please-no-please-no-please-

Rhodey stops dead in his tracks, looking from the the terrified display to his best friend, eyes ablaze with concern. He looks as lost as Tony feels. 

“Shh, it’s okay, bud, it’s just Rhodey, see? You know Rhodey. He’s a friend, he came with me to find you. You’re safe now, shh…” Tony continues his reassurances over and over, gripping the kid and rocking him back and forth like he’s a distraught infant instead of a 17-year-old. He meets Rhodey’s eyes and wonders what on earth they’re supposed to do now. How they’re supposed to go on after this.

As it is, Peter doesn’t calm down until Rhodey leaves the room. Tony thanks his lucky stars that the kid is apparently exhausted enough to pass out again right there in his arms, because it gives him time to get out of that forsaken building and get the kid settled in the med bay. He’s still asleep when they cut the collar off and find electrical burn scars layered underneath. With the help of an IV line of super-strong pain meds, he stays asleep as all his injuries are sorted- arm braced, ankle rebroken and set, hair and skin scrubbed clean of dried blood and dirt. His threadbare jumper is replaced with a thick cotton hospital gown.

Even with his body laid out on a full-sized hospital bed, the kid curls unconsciously into himself like he’s still cramped in that tiny cage. Tony sits wide-awake at his side all night, holding the kid’s good hand around the heart monitor clipped there and regretting everything that led to this.

If only he’d picked Peter up that day instead of letting him walk home. If only they hadn’t wasted so much time following the wrong leads. If only they’d caught on to the underground ring of “mutant fights” sooner.

In his sleep, Peter flinches and whines and growls like an animal. 

_What have they done to him_ , Tony thinks desperately. _Gosh, what have they done to my kid?_

...

It’s been seven days, ten hours and fifteen minutes. 

Peter watches, blank-faced and empty-eyed, as bowl and spoon are placed in his hands. It makes Tony feel like he’s dealing with a robot, but even his robots are more lively than this. Taking Peter’s spoon, the man presses the Cheerios under the milk so that every piece of cereal will be soggy, just the way Peter likes. In times past Tony had made fun of him for the preference, and Peter had ardently defended it as the only right way to eat cereal. 

Now the memory of Old Peter echoes in the back of his mind like a glimpse of an alternate reality.

“Think you can finish all of that, buddy?” Tony asks, leaning down so he’s in Peter’s line of sight. Dulled brown eyes trail up to him, then back to the bowl and he nods, picking up the spoon. Tony breathes a sigh of relief as the kid starts to eat, chewing slowly.

He checks his phone and feels a nervous thrill at the notification there: _I’m about to come down. Still want to do this?_ He glances at Peter before typing and sending a quick, _Yes, ty._

“Hey, bud, remember that time you, me and Pep spent Saturday morning watching dumb cartoons and eating breakfast food til noon?” he begins, picking at his own cereal to seem casual about it. “I thought we could do that today, since she’s got no meetings til this afternoon. Whaddaya say?”

Peter pauses. He lifts one shoulder indifferently, but Tony can see anxiety hidden in the movement. Apathy and fear; whatever happened in the last four months stripped Peter– lively, expressive Peter– of all but these two emotions. They might as well have stolen Tony’s entire fortune; that loss would’ve hurt less.

Before Tony can think how to reassure him or possibly backtrack, there are footsteps in the hall and Pepper is rounding the corner with a bright smile on her face.

“Hey, guys!” she greets, pausing in the entrance of the kitchen to look them over. She’s comfortably dressed in pajama bottoms and her ‘I lost an electron’ shirt that she and Peter both own, her hair down and feet socked. It’s 10 times less intimidating than her usual business suits and high heels but still Peter squirms closer to Tony’s side and eyes her warily, choosing to look at her feet rather than her face. Pepper wilts a bit at the reception.

“Morning, hon,” Tony calls. He pushes a pleading ‘we can do this, just act normal’ into his gaze, and Pepper, bless her, seems to get the message. “We’ve got cereal over here, help yourself.”

Pepper grabs a bowl off the counter and crosses the room, her movements deliberate and nonthreatening. There’s no change from Peter, whose own bowl is sitting in his lap like something hardly worth his interest.

“Hmm,” she hums. “Cheerios are good, but mind if I add to the spread? I think we’ve got some frozen quiches around here somewhere, that sounds good to me.”

Tony smiles. “Go for it.” As soon as she walks away he nudges Peter and says quietly, “You’re okay, Pete. Nothing to be stressed about, yeah? Pep is just like me: she wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

For what it’s worth, the kid does relax minutely. In the interim of Pepper opening packages and using the microwave, Tony picks up the remote and turns on the TV, browsing around for something safe and feel-good before settling on Nickelodeon, which is showing some animated movie. Peter’s eyes flick up to the screen.

“Alright, I got mini-quiches and even some blueberry muffins, ” Pepper announces upon her return, both hands holding trays of said items. “Totally gourmet… And by gourmet, I mean Costco brand.”

“The best,” Tony agrees, snatching one of each as soon as she sets them down. “Which would you rather have, bud?” He turns to Peter, who is done with his cereal and is now looking at the new food. At Tony’s invitation he hesitates but points at a muffin and Tony tries not to get too excited about it as he hands one over and watches the kid begin nibbling the top. So far things seem to be going well.

Now he’s just gotta go through with the next step.

Around ten minutes in, the movie cuts to a commercial break. Tony shifts in preparation to stand up and Peter immediately follows suit, not even questioning, but carefully Tony takes the boy’s hands and holds them at arm’s length. Peter looks at him questioningly, a rare moment of eye contact.

“I’m just gonna take a bathroom break, okay, bud?” he explains. “You stay here with Pep.” He tucks Peter’s hands to his lap and stands.

Peter keens and sits up straighter, wide eyes kindling anew with anxiety. Tony feels like the worst human being on the planet, but he knows he needs to do this. He needs to help _Peter_ do this.

“It’s just a few minutes apart,” he promises. “I’ll go straight there and back.”

“And I’ll be here with you the whole time,” Pepper chimes in. She scoots closer from the other side of the couch and puts a soothing hand on Peter’s back, easing him back into the cushions as Tony leaves the room. The man tries not to look back as he hears her quieting and comforting the boy’s whimpers. Pepper is a better people person than Tony will ever be and he knows she’ll take good care of him, but Tony’s fingers still itch with the urge to turn right back around.

As soon as he gets to the bathroom, Tony pulls up a feed of the living room on his phone via FRIDAY’s cams to watch the room he just left. On the couch, Peter is decidedly not coping as well with Pepper as he does Tony, but he isn’t having a meltdown; in fact, he’s allowing her to sit close and keep an arm wrapped around his shoulders, though his forehead remains creased in apprehension. The poor kid looks like he’s fighting with himself to be patient; his gaze is torn between watching the TV and checking the doorway for Tony’s return.

Biting his lip, Tony puts his screen away and sighs. He paces the small space, checking his watch impatiently until at last five minutes have passed.

On his way back he hears it.

The yelling.

“Peter? Peter, honey, you’re okay! Please calm down, you’re home, you’re safe-” Pepper.

His walk turns into a sprint as he rounds the corner, heart in his throat, and takes in the worrying scene before him.

Peter is curled up in a fetal position on the couch, Pepper kneeling in front of him with helplessness on her face as she tries to get his attention. Peter’s hands are pressed over his ears, his eyes clenched shut, his whole body shuddering as he rocks and cries inconsolably.

“What happened?” Tony demands.

Pepper hurries backwards so Tony can take her spot. “I don’t know what- what agitated him,” she says in a rush. There are tears in her eyes. “He just suddenly started panicking and hyperventilating and- and he won’t let me touch him, he screams if I try-”

“Don’t scream!” Peter says suddenly. Both adults’ attention snaps to him. His eyes have opened but they’re unseeing as he croaks, “Don’t scream, they- they’ll hear! Be good, be good, be good, I- I’m _good_ \- _please_ , I’m–”

“Peter, hey,” Tony tries, carefully putting his hand on Peter’s shoulder.

At the touch, Peter flinches, his head smacking against the couch. His whispering gets more frantic. “I’ll be better! I will! I-”

“Peter, please, stop!” The man takes Peter’s face between his hands. “You’re safe. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. Can you hear me, buddy? It’s your- it’s _Tony_.”

Peter goes still.

“Tony,” he repeats. His face crumples slowly, lip trembling. “I miss Tony…”

The man of iron feels his heart splinter. _I miss you, too, Pete. Come back to me._

“You’ve got him,” he says. “Tony’s here now. He’s got you. He’s gonna keep you safe.”

In the stillness that follows, all is quiet save the sound of Peter’s rapid breathing, but even that is slowing and evening out. His blinks several times as the storm clouds in his eyes dissipate, light returning gradually as the seconds pass. Tony’s thumb strokes away a tear still rolling down the boy’s cheek, and at last Peter focuses and looks at rather than through him.

They stare at one another for a long moment. The teen swallows and opens his mouth with a shaky inhale, a fresh sheen of tears filling his eyes.

“S-sorry… my bad,” he rasps.

Tony’s brain short-circuits for a moment, and all he can think is how unbelievable it is that the most of Peter he’s seen in so long could come as the result of such an episode. He doesn’t know whether it makes him want to laugh or cry.

He pulls himself onto the couch and gathers his kid into his arms, one hand bracing Peter’s back, the other nestling in his still-overgrown curls. Peter responds by clinging around his middle and pressing his ear to Tony’s chest, no doubt timing his breaths by the heartbeats there.

It’s only after Pepper leaves to find them a blanket that Tony sees the TV screen and the image it’s paused on. It’s an infomercial… an infomercial for obedience training. The closed captioning advertises “Don Sullivan’s Secrets To Training The Perfect Dog: order the DVD set now and get a complimentary Command Collar”.

Tony had never had strong feelings about infomercials in general but at that moment he wants nothing more than to buy every single TV station and destroy them all. Screw Don Sullivan.

He’s surprised when Peter suddenly huffs a humorless sound. “I’m pretty broken, aren’t I,” he states quietly, voice wrecked.

Tony pushes his fingers through the scruff on the back of Peter’s neck, wishing so hard that he could turn back time. “No,” he refutes. “No, you’re not.”

Peter is quiet for a long time, so long that Tony wonders if he’s given in to the pull of post-panic-attack exhaustion and fallen asleep. But in a tired voice weighted by more sadness than any man, woman or child should ever know comes a tiny reply:

“Yes, I am.”

…

Peter has scars. A lot of them.

It’s been fifteen days since and he’s barely improved, still clinging and hesitant to speak or make eye contact with anyone other than Tony. He lets himself talk in small bursts but it’s nothing like he used to be; he can also manage up to fifteen minutes alone without having a panic attack if Tony has to shower or use the restroom. He does the same so long as Tony waits for him outside the door (within range of hearing his heartbeat).

After the disastrous separation experiment, Tony isn’t eager to push much more than that.

(Peter has scars.)

Some are thicker than others, especially on his wrists and his back; the white lines criss crossing over his form tell tale of screams long since silenced. Just seeing the marks makes Tony’s knees weak with a concoction of feelings he can’t describe– prominently there’s horror, because he remembers how every injury was discovered and treated on that first night back and it was like Tony himself was taking a beating… and then there’s _regret-guilt-anger-helplessness_ , because the cuts are healed now– Peter’s healing capabilities took over soon after he got the proper nutrition and medical attention– but poison memories are sealed inside.

If he hugs the kid a little longer than necessary after watching him get his boot cast removed and seeing the scar tissue that mars him there too, Peter doesn’t seem to mind. The kid leans into his touch more now than he ever did before.

“Alright, little shadow,” Tony says brightly as he pulls away, using the nickname that had never been more appropriate in their relationship; having a kid clinging closer than a literal shadow at all times did that to you. He glances one more time at the newly-healed foot and gets an idea. “What do you say we celebrate this cast coming off? Wanna take a walk around the compound, get some fresh air?”

Peter looks up at him through his ragged, unstyled hair, doe eyes wide but empty. Tony smooths his bangs back and the kid blinks once as if to focus. Tony can see him trying to be there, trying to care. Trying and trying and trying.

“…’kay,” he whispers, fragile. He lets Tony take his hands and help him stand.

Once he’s got them bundled up in jackets to withstand cold winds that roll off the water, Tony hiding a wrist gauntlet on the hand in his pocket (because yes, he’s that paranoid), the two of them (as one figure) step outside for the first time in– in a while. Definitely a while.

A cool breeze follows them on their walk and Tony allows a deep breath of actual fresh air to clean out his lungs and settle in his veins. It’s not very often he gets to enjoy the benefits of living outside the city.

They end up walking along a trail that follows the Hudson and Tony decides that this actually was a good idea: the nature-y sights and sounds seem to help bring Peter to life. There’s a glimmer of contentedness in his face as he looks out over the trees and water and sky. He loosens his grip on Tony’s arm and settles for a gentle handhold. Tony looks at him sideways, feeling a swell of hope rise in his chest, right behind where his arc reactor used to be.

“It’s nice to get out, huh,” he says softly. The edges of Peter’s eyes crinkle in what might be the world’s tiniest beginning of a smile.

Other than occasionally checking that Peter’s leg isn’t hurting, Tony shuts his mouth and lets the white noise around them do its thing. He’s been talking too much lately anyway, trying to overcompensate.

They’ve been walking for almost an hour and stopped to admire a small waterfall when Peter suddenly bristles and presses himself close to Tony’s side. In paranoia, the man pulls his gauntlet hand out of his pocket and is all but ready to activate it, when all that comes around the path toward them is a wobbling toddler in a puffy coat.

They stare at him. He stares back, a gap-tooth grin on his face. “‘Ah-dy!” he says in greeting.

 _No, nope, I’ve definitely got my hands full being just ONE kid’s Daddy_ , Tony thinks worriedly, when behind the toddler appears a man who moves to scoop the boy up in his arms. The man holds the boy, who’s probably about 18-24 months old, by his feet and the kid shrieks in delight, wiggling around upside-down.

“Leaving me behind, guys?” a woman’s voice calls before a third person appears, putting her arm on her husband’s shoulder and glancing curiously at Tony and Peter. Peter hides himself behind Tony, eyes on the dirt, and Tony manages to cast them a weak smile to be polite whilst squeezing his kid’s arm reassuringly.

The man sets their kid down and he immediately spins around, looking at the waterfall. “Wa-er!” As he tottles away, Tony catches sight of the symbol on the back of his coat and does a double-take.

“Nice jacket,” he says without thinking.

He glances down at Peter. The kid has noticed too– his eyes are locked on the symbol, expression unreadable.

The man turns around from where he and his wife are watching their toddler. He follows their gaze and laughs. It’s a tiny Spider-Man themed coat.

“Thanks! Spidey’s our family’s favorite. He saved Shannon’s life when she was pregnant with this dude,” he says, indicating his family members respectively. “The guy may not be around lately, or moved, or- whatever, there’s lot’s of theories- but… he isn’t forgotten, not for us.”

“-ah-DEE!” the little guy calls from where he and the woman have wandered, and this time he seems to be referring to his actual daddy so the man gives them an awkward little wave before walking off to catch up.

The strangers gone, Peter sags into Tony’s side. His face is still unreadable. Tony can’t think of anything to do other than wordlessly steer them down the path toward home, wondering at the heavy thought bubbles building over his kid’s head.

...

Tony has learned that most of the time, no matter what the cause, healing goes like this: Two steps forward, one step back. 

Two steps forward: they finally get Peter a haircut and help him style it the way he likes. Peter is tense but relatively calm throughout it. One step back: the sound of the bell over the barber shop door sends him into a panic attack on the way out. He shakes like a leaf after it’s over and won’t explain what set him off.

Two steps forward: They have lunch with Happy one afternoon and Peter speaks a few words to the man, even looks him in the eye a few times. One step back: Happy unwittingly says something too harshly in the kid’s direction, intending just to banter as he and the kid used to but forgetting that he’s fragile now, and the boy shuts down, eyes going distant. Happy feels like crap afterwards.

Two steps forward: Peter spends half a morning in relative calm with Pepper rather than Tony. It’s a helpful break for the man to visit with specialists for advice on Peter's recovery. One step back: The same day, Tony comes back from a normal 15 minute shower to find Pete rocking back and forth, dissociated but with tears tracks still wet on his cheeks, no obvious triggers in sight.

The examples go on and on.

Tony is privy to news about the twice-busted dog-fighting ring, as well as the progress of the freed mutants. One month after rescue, he finds out that one of the rescuees committed suicide. Apparently he couldn’t remember how to be human, couldn’t find it in himself to try after the horrors he’d been through. The news scares Tony so bad, brings an echo of Peter’s tired question (“Is it even worth it?”) to mind, so that to calm down in that moment he calls Peter to him and holds him in a careful hug long enough for the teen to doze off in his arms. 

Tony decides he’s not going to let Peter give up on life, and that’s why they start the homeschooling stuff the next day.

Peter is smart. He could’ve been graduated by now if he’d skipped grades like Tony had at his age but it’s not what happened and now he’s a semester behind, having been taken just before school got out, and reclaimed a few weeks into the new school year. Tony figures they can just play catch up at their own pace and Peter can return to Midtown High if and when he wants. Piece of cake.

Except.

“I can’t do it,” Peter insists, stubbornness masking despair.

They’re at the kitchen table in the penthouse, books spread out everywhere, and it’s calculus,  _ calculus _ for crying out loud. Tony knows Peter could do calculus in his sleep at one point.

“You can,” Tony replies, trying for the patience that has never been his strong suit. “You’re brilliant, Pete. It’s just gonna take a sec to refresh since it’s been awhile-”

“I know!” Peter whines, frustration ebbing into his tone. “I know, I know, I know, but I just- I just  _ can’t _ .”

The man says nothing, just waits with growing unease as Peter glares at the book, the wall, at everything except Tony. He’s got a hardly-used Number 2 pencil clenched in one hand and it’s tapping rapidly against the grain. Beneath the table, his foot bounces anxiously against one chair leg. The nervous ticks are a familiarity of Peter Parker; the anger is not.

Tony pushes the textbook away and leans over to try and pull Peter’s gaze, to no avail. “Can you help me understand what you’re thinking?” he tries.

Peter pouts sullenly. He shakes his head.

“Do you need a break?” Tony suggests. “It’s like Pepper’s always telling me-”

“I don’t need a break!” Peter interrupts, his voice taking on a foreign pitch. “I just need- I need-” The pencil snaps messily in his grip and he startles, dropping the pieces to the floor. His arms wrap across around his torso as if to keep himself from shattering, too. 

“Peter,” Tony levels. “You have to calm down. You’re alright.”

Peter isn’t listening though. His hands are starting to rake up and down his arms, sharp nails leaving trails of red on his skin. The action gets faster and faster, drawing beads of blood as it goes. “Why can’t I get it right? I have to get it right, or…” he refrains, eyes going glassy.

“Peter,  _ stop _ !” Tony says loudly, standing and grabbing one of Peter’s wrists. Thinking only of putting a stop to the self-harm, he yanks the appendage away somewhat harshly.

It happens in the blink of an eye: Tony’s hold loosens when Peter pulls his wrist back, already feeling guilty for the severe action. There’s a scrape of chairs legs and a thump and then all is still. Because Peter-

Peter is kneeling on the tile, head bowed submissively and wrists pressed together in front of him like an offering. His eyes are open wide but all emotion is gone from his face. 

It’s the same position he assumed when Tony first pulled him from his cage weeks ago. Except, that had been when he thought a captor had woken him; now he’s kneeling before  _ Tony _ and the man has no idea  _ why _ . Does he think Tony’s mad at him? Over  _ math _ ? 

Ice cold shards of _wrong wrong wrong_ are shooting through Tony’s veins, surprise and concern pricking his skin with goosebumps. There are a million and one apologies in his throat as he sinks to the ground across from Peter. 

“Kid?” he prods, with no reaction. He reaches a hand out to tilt the boy’s chin up. The movement is halted, however, when Peter shudders, as though the hand were a weapon coming for him rather than a gesture of comfort. That’s when Tony discerns that his face is not, in fact, emotionless; it’s an almost perfect mask but the truth is in his eyes. 

Peter is terrified. 

What’s worse than the realization is the phrase he whimpers:

“I’m sorry, sir.”

He wants to think Peter’s having another flashback, and there’s definitely some psychological effect of trauma at play here, but-

Tony yelled. Tony grabbed his wrist. Tony is ‘Sir’. 

Horror washes through the man like a toxin.

“Peter,” he chokes.  _ Use his name, bring him back.  _ “Peter, no. I’m not your… You don’t have a master, not here, not ever,  _ ever _ again. Gosh, you should never have-“

He places his hand on Peter’s cheek, a feather-light touch, and keeps it there despite the shiver that runs beneath his fingers. 

“Hey… Peter, you’re not in trouble. Will you look at me, bud?” He’s careful to give a choice rather than a command. 

Those tawny irises flick upwards… a wilted flower seeking the sun. He takes in Tony’s soft face and cautiously, gradually the fear recedes, melts like frost. Hope, then relief, and finally longing show through. 

“Hey, there’s my little shadow,” Tony greets, smiling but sobered. “You know I would never hurt you, Peter. Never.”  _ It'd be like hurting myself.  _ “And  _ nobody _ will hurt you ever again if I have any say about it.”

He holds up his free hand in invitation and tentatively Peter reaches for it. Their fingers intertwine. The teen has been so very touch sensitive for as long as Tony’s known him; it fills his bones with helpless rage to think how his captivity has twisted that. 

Old man knees and hard floors don’t mix, and that’s why Tony ends up stretching out on his side right there on the carpet, Peter quick to curl up beside him. It’s silent for several minutes. 

“Pete...” Tony says eventually, his voice plain, his hand rubbing up and down his kid’s spine soothingly. “I’m gonna be real with you, kid. It doesn’t have to be now, but sometime you gotta talk about what happened to you out there.”

He can’t see Peter’s face from where it’s tucked under his arm, but Tony knows he’s listening. Constant close proximity gets you in tune with someone like that. 

“I know it sucks,” he continues, the word ‘sir’ burning like a brand behind his eyes. “It sucks to think about and it sucks to talk about. But you gotta try. Otherwise… it’ll eat you up inside.” He sighs, “I just wanna help you feel okay again.”

He lets the quiet settle like a blanket over them long enough that he dozes off. Blame it on the long nights. When he comes to, Peter is not beside him anymore, but there is a blanket from the couch draped over him. He looks around and sees the kid back in his chair, head ducked over his calculus textbook; trying and trying and trying. Tony joins him, prouder than he's ever been in his life.

…

Eight weeks home.

A strangled-sounding scream cuts through the dark and into Tony’s heart like a knife.

Tony’s startled but he isn’t surprised; startled because of the rude awakening from being asleep at the kid’s side, and the ever-terrifying possibility that something might be wrong, but not surprised in the conventional way because he’s aware that this has happened almost every night since the kid came off the heavy meds.

Peter is whimpering strings of ‘please’ and ‘no’, and Tony turns on the bedside lamp to see him huddled in a ball, eyes closed and budding with tears, one fist stuffed in his mouth to stifle the noise. He winces when Tony puts a hand on the side of his head.

“Peter,” Tony whispers, so tired. “Peter, bud, you’re okay. It’s just a bad dream. Open those eyes for me?”

Peter whines, but his eyes do crack open to anguished slits. He’s shaking beneath Tony’s palm, and biting down so hard on his hand that the man sees a trail of blood running down his knuckles. Tony’s other hand gently pries the fist out away from his mouth. Peter lets him.

“Hey bud,” the man greets softly, catching the kid’s gaze. Peter stills as his surrogate father rubs a thumb along his temple soothingly.

Tony smiles sadly. “What did I tell those nightmares last night, huh? My kid is off-limits; only good dreams allowed. Iron Man decrees it.”

Peter stares at him, breathing erratic as his awareness returns. He inhales sharply, an attempt to calm down, but his breath catches on a sob on the exhale. He covers his face with both hands and dissolves into fresh cries, leaning into Tony as the man takes the back of his head and pulls him close.

“Shhh,” Tony murmurs, fingers carding through the curls at Peter’s nape. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay. Go ahead and cry, I’m here.”

It takes some time for Peter to cry himself out. Tony doesn’t stop whispering reassurances the whole time. He can tell by the pace of the breaths beneath him that Peter’s still awake.

“You can tell me anything, Pete,” he offers gently, as he has every night. “I’m here for you.”

Peter has yet to tell Tony about what happened to him, or about the nightmares that haunt him so badly. As he comforts, Tony traces his thumb across the hollow under Peter’s eye, wiping away wetness there and remembering how the straps of a muzzle had traced the same spot in a perverse fashion not so long ago, before Iron Man had removed and destroyed the thing in disgust.

Some scars can’t be bandaged as easily as others, but for the first time in all such nights, Peter does respond.

“Mr. Stark,” he says so softly that Tony holds his breath so as to not miss anything, “Mr. Stark, I- I don’t- I just don’t _understand_.”

It’s in these moments, somehow, that Peter is most himself. The storms drag Peter out of his hiding place. “What don’t you understand,” the man prompts. He pulls back to see the teen’s face. His young brow is furrowed in- confusion? concentration?

Peter chews his lip for a moment before going on. “It’s like, when I was there… all I could- all I dreamed about was _home_. But now I’m here and I, I can’t- I’m st-still _there_ , you know?” He meets Tony’s eyes. “What if I can’t ever really come home?” he concludes hopelessly.

Tony does unfortunately, painfully know what he’s asking about, because he has a similar trauma and it’s called Afghanistan.

“You just need time, buddy,” he says. “I know what you mean, trust me, I do. It just gets better with time.”

“Is it worth it?” Peter presses suddenly. “Am I-” His eyes trail sideways to the sheets and he swallows. “Am I even worth it?”

Tony’s jaw hardens. “That’s not even a question.”

“I-I did bad things… And, and I’m not the same.”

“You didn’t have a choice, kid. And being different? That’s not as bad as you think.”

“I’m ruining your life.”

“Peter, you are _not_ -”

“I’m inhuman and I’m a waste of space.”

It’s the way he says it, like it’s a known fact, something he’s been drilled with and long since accepted, that really gets under Tony’s skin. He’s been pretty good at holding himself together so far, all things considered, but can’t help that he feels his own eyes stinging with tears at the sound of his kid reiterating the garbage he’s been brainwashed with.

He sits up so suddenly that Peter startles.

“I’m not really tired anymore,” he says briskly, throwing the covers off himself and trying to discreetly wipe at his eyes.

Peter pushes himself up too, eyes wide and concerned. “Mr. Stark?”

“I’m feeling like a trip to the lab, maybe a snack on the way. How ‘bout you, kid? Wanna join your old man for some late night wandering?”

Peter presses his lips together in confusion, but he nods. Tony pushes the covers back more so that the kid can get his feet on the ground before stepping out himself, the both of them slipping into their usual bracing of one another.

Apparently speaking, and now getting up, is too much deviation from the routine for Peter because in his eyes he’s slipping back into himself, expression closing off. Tony hopes he doesn’t feel embarrassed; Before-Peter would’ve been, but Now-Peter is hard to read.

FRIDAY turns on lights as they pad down the hall, already long since attuned to Tony’s nocturnal habits. A quick stop at the kitchen supplies them with a bowl of Chex mix, and then the lab doors are whooshing open and Tony’s realizing he doesn’t actually feel like tinkering. He just needed a reprieve to collect his thoughts but now he’s got Peter out of bed for no reason and it’s not healthy, he’s gonna ruin his kid, he’s a terrible guardian-

He shakes his head. One thing at a time.

“Come sit with me,” he says unnecessarily, leading a compliant Peter to the couch and settling him down with the bowl of Chex in his lap. Neither of them move to eat any of it. Tony takes a seat beside him and drums his fingers on the knee of his worn sweatpants for a long moment, looking around for something to do now that he’s brought them here.

His eyes fall on a forgotten Target bag sitting stuffed in one corner and the metaphorical light bulb goes on.

As quickly as he sat, Tony’s back on his feet. Peter’s gaze follows him as he crosses to a nearby screen, booting it on and then retrieving the items he needs from the shopping bag. He shields his activities from Peter and whispers instructions to FRIDAY before finally whirling around to look at his kid with a crazy grin. It probably seems like he’s gone crazy at this point.

“Buddy, I have one question for ya,” he states, hands raising and pausing for dramatic effect. “Have you ever played… _Just Dance_?”

Peter stares at him the way one might stare at a fascinating tornado. He slowly shakes his head.

Tony laughs nervously. “Uhh… me neither. But listen, after you moved in, I kind of-” … _panicked_ … “-sent Happy to the store to find things you might like to have around the house? Like video games? I don’t know what kids like. Happy doesn’t either. He must’ve checked the internet or something because he came home with this, and kid, can you imagine Harold Hogan in the store buying a dancing game? Now that’s an image I treasure. On behalf of his efforts, I think we should give it a go, right here, right now.”

By the time the rambling stops, Dum-E, U and Butterfingers have made their way to this corner of the lab like curious cats trying to interpret their boss’ strange behavior. Noticing their presence, Tony throws his arm out to point at Dum-E. The other two bots startle comically.

“You,” Tony declares. “You can hold a wii remote, right? You and me. Let’s dance. Pete, you’re on the tambourine. I don’t actually have a tambourine. Just keep time by knocking, like this.”

The man leans forward and raps his knuckles twice against the side of the chex mix bowl. It’s not like it’s loud, or even necessary, but it’s something to get the kid involved. Peter looks a little lost, but not in the dissociative way- more like he’s trying to figure out if he’s actually awake or if this is a weird dream he’s having. Still, Tony’s on a roll and he feels dangerously confident. Not quite confident enough to ask Peter to dance, but enough to make a fool of himself in the hopes of bringing comic relief to one of their awful nights.

Within a few minutes, FRIDAY has configured the game on Tony’s screen and the main menu music is playing through the speakers. One newly-unwrapped wii-remote is clutched in Dum-E’s claw, safety strap secured, and Tony’s using the other to flip through the menu and create player profiles.

“Okay, so…” he mutters, finally arriving at the song selection screen. “What do we have here… Gotta make sure we choose an easy one. Not for me, of course; I’m worried about dum-dum over there.”

His eye catches on a song title, and he pauses to let the sample play. At first it was just because the song is marked “Beginner Level”, but he recognizes the clip as a tune he’d once caught Peter humming as he worked on some homework. Being the privacy-respecting parental figure he is, Tony had proceeded to tease him relentlessly because _One Direction? Wow, Pete, gotta say I didn’t peg you as a pre-teen girl from 2012_.

Still, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Peter perk just slightly, the little dork– and it’s enough that Tony’s pressing the ‘play’ button without further mental argument.

The screen changes to four dancers, two of which are labeled for his and Dum-E’s remotes. As the opening measures of guitar riff begin, Tony mimics the pose of the avatar on screen and peeks over his shoulder.

“I need my tambourine player,” he reminds, and though Peter’s face is twisted in an expression of intrigue, he quickly readies his knuckle against the side of the Chex bowl and starts tapping it in time with the music.

And Tony dances.

_“You’re insecure… Don’t know what for. You’re turnin’ heads as you walk through the do-o-or.”_

“How the crap?” Tony mutters, watching Dum-E hit every move perfectly whilst his own avatar misses several points. “How-“

_“Don’t need make-up… to cover up. Bein’ the way that you are in en-uh-uh-ough.”_

The graphics go crazy for the beginning of the chorus and Tony cringes, though that changes when behind him he hears a small laugh that makes his heart stutter. He doesn’t look just yet, just tries harder to wave his remote hand in time with the song with exaggerated movements.

_“Baby, you light up my world like nobody else. The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed-“_

_This is definitely written for preteen girls_ , he sighs internally. Still… it’s undeniably catchy. To add to the show, he starts mumble-singing out the words aloud as they scroll on-screen:

“The way you smile at the ground, it ain’t hard to tell, you don’t kno-o-ow, you don’t know you’re beautiful-”

That’s when the ‘tambourine’ beats stop. When Tony looks behind him he sees the kid shaking with silent laughter, an open-mouthed smile on his face.

He meets Tony’s eyes and for once there’s no weight of the world there. He’s just– Peter.

It’s a sight too beautiful to describe.

“ _Oooh, keep trying_!” the game prompts when Tony forgets to keep up. Their eyes flicker to the screen and Tony huffs.

“I’m not cut out for this follow-along stuff,” he says airily, giving up on it completely. “Tony Stark follows no one’s rules but his own.”

And with that, he slings his remote strap around U’s claw and breaks into his own freestyle moves, the ones he usually reserves for dancing in private, when he’s sleep-deprived and a little loopy. Be that as it may, Tony Stark knows he is a good dancer; he never imagined it would come in handy for a moment such as this, but heck, there’s not much he wouldn’t do if it got Peter doubling over in peels of giggles like he is right now.

When the song hits the chorus a second time, Tony grabs a screwdriver off the shelf, turning it upside-down as an impromptu microphone, and he sings the next words directly to his beaming kid:

“ _Peter_ , you light up my world like no-bo-dy else. The way that you- have- hair? Na-na-nanana– The way you smile at the ground, it ain’t hard to tell, you don’t kno-o-ow–”

Peter goes still, a lingering smile on his face as he listens to Tony’s altered lyrics.

“-If only you saw what I can see, you’d understand why I _LOVE_ you so _PERFECTLY_ – Right now I’m looking at you and I can’t believe you don’t know, oh oh- You don’t know you’re beautiful! Oh, oh-oh, _Pe-ter_ you’re so beau-ti-ful!”

Tony breathes out, surprisingly choked up. He repeats the message as emphatically as he can, for however many times the song repeats it, his movements getting more silly and more sloppy until the music finally ends, bots trilling excitedly in the background about Dum-E’s somehow-perfect score.

He lowers himself to the ground in front of Peter, panting from exertion. The hum of menu music plays behind them but the game is forgotten.

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” Tony breathes. “You are worth… everything. The whole world. You were, you are, and you always will be.”

Peter’s eyes shine like stars. He melts into Tony’s hold when the man leans forward.

…

Peter has scars, but Peter is not his scars.

Tony teaches him that little by little, one day at a time, as many times as needed until it's finally believed.


End file.
